


Dýr eða Dys

by millionthline



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Dialogue, Hand Jobs, Innuendo, M/M, Stranger Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3912952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millionthline/pseuds/millionthline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Ecbert invites the Earl Ragnar Lothbrok to negotiate in his baths. His means of sealing a deal, however, take a turn for the unexpected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dýr eða Dys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tribumvirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribumvirate/gifts).



> Prompt: the bath scene is way different with ecbert kindofmaybe swooning a lil over this super hot viking dude and making moves on him and bAM ragnar is totally down for some rough buttfucking. can ecbert be as daffy (internally) for ragnar and his hot bod as we are pls.

* * *

_Dýr eða Dys: The Beast and The Grave_

* * *

 

The home of the King proves to be a strange place. Here there are faded paintings upon the walls, in the corners of rooms hints of foreign architecture with cylinder-stones that sprouted from floor to ceiling, not unlike the wooden pillars that kept the lofts of Uppland's only temple. It is within the folds of stone walls that they pass other figures of such hard material. At first Ragnar takes their shape as a mistaken glance, for in the courtyard they'd entered there were many stone pillars that had since been eroded down to stubs of what they had been before. But the figure that they pass now is that of a woman. Never has he seen such a thing hewn from rock; it was as though some giantess, a _flögð_ , found rest in the open courtyard one day, and never woke by leave of an unexpected ray of sun.

It isn’t until he becomes more amused with them that he allows his curiosity to go as far as to drag his coarse fingers over their stony skins and grey breasts, and at the sight of the first man, Ragnar stops and asks, "Who made all of these things?"

"Nobody knows," replies the soldier who had taken the role of his guide through the grounds. Ragnar's eyes flicker over the statue, peering at the figure's face. A hand lifts to explore its hard angles. "Some say a race of giants once lived on this island."

The remark surprises Ragnar, and it surely doesn’t answer his questions. Never had Athelstan told him of _jǫtunn_ in England, or any other creatures he himself knew about for that matter. There is an instance he remembers well when Arne had spoke of the firstborn, but the priest, sitting nearer to the fire than he ever had before (he eventually made his way closer and closer into meetings such as that without any notice), interjected by naming a man and woman that were supposedly firstborn instead.

 _"Ask and Embla, you mean. And no, they were not firstborn, the jǫtunn were,"_ Torstein had grunted. It was one of the last times Athelstan told his Christian stories at such gatherings.

"Giants," Ragnar repeats as he stands in the English King’s home, and a grin is on his face.

Only a few more turns in the corridors brings them to a heavy door, where Ragnar's skin is already begins to feel a curious moisture. When it swings open a great pool of stagnant water is revealed, a sight he's never seen before sprawling indoors, with heat rising in wisps where the dimming light from high windows slanting down at the right angles. And there, naked and lounging in his strange bath, can only be King Ecbert, with a chain about his chest and eyes watching from his far distance. "Sire, may I present Earl Ragnar Lothbrok," the soldier speaks.

"You may leave us."

Without any hesitation the few guards peel from the room walls and begin passing him out the doorway, leaving Ragnar standing and swinging his arms to shrug off what sudden restlessness had overcome him, all the while wondering if such meetings were common. Do these English Kings often allow enemies into their bathing quarters, not minding if company was enjoyed with their own nakedness? Perhaps it is simply good courtesy and hospitality, to show that there are indeed no hidden daggers under the belt or sleeve. But still King Ecbert stares, and adds, "All of you."

The final soldier—Ragnar's guide—easily shuts the door behind him, and his exit only increases the Northman's increasing confusion. With all the others gone there is a nervousness festering in his chest, not in fear of danger but simply an anxiety brought by not knowing what is to happen next, what some unknown English custom might expect him to do. But alas, the soldier is gone, and so Lothbrok turns his attentions back to the King who in turn makes a wide gesture of his arms and asks, "Will you not join me, Ragnar Lothbrok? The water is very temperate."

Of any possible customs that may have crossed Rangar’s head, to join the King in his excessive bath was absent. He holds still for a moment and tries to retranslate the words through his head: English to his own _Norrœnt Mál_ , the northern language of his home. And yet it always comes down to an invitation to bathe, and so he puts on his mosts affable smile as he walks nearer, letting a hand slip by a pillar, watching Ecbert look at him when he halts in front of him. He pauses. What a forward look this king has, straight into Ragnar’s eyes.

The Earl turns and tries not to feel the burning gaze as he begins to unlace his leather armor. A glance he can’t help goes over his shoulder, however, and confirms that Ecbert indeed has no intentions of looking away. No matter, he is a warrior, and others have seen him naked before.

The body piece falls to the floor, and Ragnar busies his attentions to the tunic underneath as it goes sliding up his torso, over his shoulders, and off his head.

Though King he is, and thus had fought for some years for his father before he himself was on the throne, Ecbert has never come to fully appreciate the flesh-bound medals of war until he saw all the etched scars marking Ragnar’s body. First revealed in the translucent light of the bath room are two gratuitous dips carved in his lower back, and then the signs of more violent carvings upon this foreigner’s flesh made in angry red bruising from a recent encounter on his left flank, the more old markings, such as the line traced on the other side of his back, or the criss-cross scarring darkened on his shoulder. Long has he known of the brutality of the Northmen, but never have his eyes welcomed the sight of one so readily before, despite it being true that the novelties of flesh have ever pleased King Ecbert.

Ragnar pulls his tunic over his head, all the sinew and muscle stretching and rippling under his skin. The King absently bites his lip. While his eyes are so lit with interest at the raider’s hands palming his pants belt, Ragnar cranes his neck to peer over his own shoulder in return with two blue flames that reminds him of ice. Then they turn away just as quick as they came, and Ragnar’s final clothes are beginning to strip away from his body.

Ecbert blinks. No sorts of undergarments; interesting. He has to stop his lips from tugging up too far, for they move with a mind of their own now, and he instead looks at the ceiling to allow his mind to travel other places. This is indeed what he wills himself to do; but at the sounds of the other turning to face him he cannot help his curiosity (for better or worse, inquisitiveness never failed to escape being a large part of Ecbert’s motives in life), and so allows himself to examine the naked specimen before him with a kingly ease, as if he had the right to use Ragnar as a subject of his personal viewing. Alas that that was not truly the case, for Ecbert’s jaw clenches several times and something stirs within him at seeing how blessed this Northman is between the legs before the sight vanishes under a curtain of bathwater.

Not often does he allow himself to indulge further than personal appreciative admiration when concerning the bodies of similar sex, but now the King’s mind traveled to daring places. Ragnar is now in the water fully and Ecbert looks at his face and smirks coyly.

He noticed how his guest was unsure as he slipped into the warm waters, how now Ragnar’s eyes bounce about the room but never on him. The very picture of inner unsurety, and Ecbert knows it. So he gestures widely again as he had before and says, “Now we are equal.”

The corners of Lothbrok’s mouth lift partially.

“Now we can talk together honestly.” Ecbert pauses, catching all the thoughts passing over the Northman’s face. But, at the word honestly, the traces become harder and steal away into more hidden depths. The King tilts his head. “Man to man.”

For a moment Ragnar’s lips motion to speak, but nothing comes.

An intrusive thought enters Ecbert’s mind at the thought of the lips from the man sitting across from him, one of more heated relations than the unfamiliar attitudes they carry now. He then turns his attention to the window and take a second to lament over the lack of sunlight. It would be pleasing to have more light on this appealing other. “May I asked you a question,” the King says, looks back, and is thrown into the gaze of the other again. “Ragnar Lothbrok?”

Ever does his guest seem to be of the cautious sort. Again Ragnar’s eyes peel away and skip to the window as Ecbert’s had done before, before dragging back to the Northumbrian and meeting the same prying stare.

Ecbert tries again. “Why do you not go home?” The last three words are clipped. Again he loses eye contact—only a minor loss, though it distresses him to already see how poor a man of conversation this Northman is—but still he continues. “After the sack at Winchester, you surely have enough treasure,” and his head shakes as he thinks on what he can mention to draw any sort of attention from the other, “and by staying, you’ve given me time to raise a large army.”

Ragnar is looking at him squarely now. The air about him changes abruptly from unease to one of confidence when he pulls his elbows behind him to rest on the rim of the bath, inclines his head to direct his line of sight, and admits, “I don’t care for treasure.”

The King tilts his head back and deduces.

This Ragnar’s mode of speech is of the curious sort. Something Ecbert had seen but cannot place, whether it was in scheming politicians or simply one of an arrogant charisma, but his guest is neither. To speak such a blunt statement said enough. It surprised him to hear such well pronounced English from this foreigner as well.

“I am a very,” Ragnar looks away and expels a sound of thought, and then continues, “curious man.” Were his eyes always so bright in the dark of the room, or did they suddenly brighten in flame? “I want to see your lands and I want to see how you farm them.” The next gesture he makes is a telling one, of admittance and openness, about to reveal a small secret. And indeed it was, for his next words are: “You see, I am really a farmer.”

A farmer. Ecbert repeats these words in his head, turns them over, checks again in his memory to see if it was true. A farmer? It would account for Ragnar’s sun-kissed skin of warrior or common folk, the weather worn creases near the Northman’s eyes, even his attitude when he first entered and moved as though out of place. Though, his personality in confidence is one of a king. Ecbert stares, the pieces of this puzzle shifting in ways he cannot quite yet solve; nonetheless, it is humorous to think that of all the people who have sat in his bathhouse, the first farmer to soak in these waters is a Northman.

The others’ arms are pulled back in the water and the space he once owned now draws inward, as if checking himself. Rightly so, in the presence of a king.

“Are you saying that if I offer you land, we could make a deal?” Ecbert asks. Ragnar’s eyes slightly widen in all the ways Ecbert’s used to before he learned to conceal his own inquisitiveness and personal intrigues. How alike they both are.

He feels as though Ragnar is a beast for a split second, whose eyes it is not smart to break with, for the Northman inclines his head again and stares and there is such a flurried movement of desire of danger and want to drink that gaze in closer proximity that Ecbert feels that he is sure the grave is not far off. But it is Ragnar himself who breaks it to nod and respond, “It’s possible,” and the length in which he decides to look at the King again nearly feels like a lifetime of thirst.

“Well,” and Ecbert does look away, partly to think on what words will come next, and part some irrational notion to see if indeed he will be eaten up by this man as he is beginning to want. He’s already leaned in slightly when he continues, “I would like something in return.”

Looking back at Lothbrok in the middle of his sentence, seeing the other’s stare narrow, is what eggs him on to continue. His mind is set on solving these shifting puzzle pieces, now pathing a clearer trail to something they can both agree in negotiations, but also to something that might, by some insane chance, quench his ever growing thirst. If only that sun outside the window spares more light, Ragnar might see the devious thoughts brew near the surface of the King’s expression. “You see, Rather Lothbrok,” he utters, while after in his mind he allows himself to pause with his mouth still open, considering. He asks himself, _Shall I do this?_

_Yes. Of course. He is the beast, and I shall lead him to his grave._

“If I were to give you land, I assume that your colony would prefer not to be under my rule. However, Wessex is my birthright. It will not be simply given to another, wholly or in parts.” He pauses and knows that Ragnar’s mind was sharp as well, for his thoughts are now visibly already steps ahead, and he apparently sees the ‘however’ that is to come next. Indeed, how alike they are. “In this country, such dealings that do allow trade of land are accompanied by the unions of people, and the inheritances entitled to all peoples involved in such a transaction. Do you understand?”

There is a stillness to Ragnar now that tells that he is trying to work out Ecbert’s words. No clarity graces his face, though there is humor marked by a nearly hidden smirk. He says, “Shall we marry, then?” Now a sharp smile in full plays about his face in jest.

Ecbert quirks his brow and chuckles, but shakes his head all the same: “No, not quite. Now, you have a fair share of knowledge on Christianity, am I correct? Or, I at least assume so, with you having an English monk at home.” He disregards the surprised flicker across Ragnar’s expression. It was something given away in his brother’s court during their last raid from the very mouths of the raiders, that slaves had been taken to the Northlands during their pillaging of the monastery. “Nonetheless, I will tell you this: Christianity is all symbolism.”

Ragnar repeats _symbolism_ aloud. “What does it mean?”

“When something represents something else,” Ecbert explains after a moment of thought. “If I may speak further about Christianity, the blood of Christ represents life. It is a symbol.” When the Northman blinks in return the King takes it for understanding. “With unions, well, nearly anything can be a symbol, can it not? Earl Ragnar, I take you to be an observant man, and the plain eye can see that we are both different and alike. Different in morals, perhaps, but the same in sharpness.”

It is at this moment that Ecbert feels it is safe to draw closer, if only by inches, as he slides forward in his submerged seat. His racing mind takes him to fantasies where he’s even closer to the Northman before him, his fingers beginning to skirt around the other’s jagged hips…

“The same, also,” he continues, “in knowing that neither of our people will be content with any such marriage. But still, in this country all is judged under the eyes of God. If there is a union, then I would willingly comply with little negotiation remaining after on such an agreement as giving you land, for God will then be pleased.”

These words lighten Ragnar’s entire demeanor in such a way that the entire atmosphere of the room shifts. A tenseness before not felt eases away so carelessly that the King knows that not only does this Northman have little experience in the art of bartering, but it is made clear that he will easily win whatever he wishes to gain.

“And what symbolism could be made from marriage, King?”

Was that just a fabrication of his heating imagination, or did the Northman draw nearer to the edge of his seat as well? “Sharp, as I said, but still I know nothing of your morals. What symbolic acts do your people pair with marriage?”

Ragnar is smiling as he looks away, and he watches his hand move underneath the water.

“A few things come to mind,” he says at length, nearly hesitant with his drawn out words. But there is amusement in his gleaming eyes as well, with what Ecbert can only read as mischief playing across his expression. “My priest, he does not seem fond of them. I think he calls them sins. But you as a king, your God might not be so angered.”

An offer. More than Ecbert had thought to expect, but suddenly it is said and he can’t hold back a smirk now. Certainly, exactly what Earl Lothbrok thinks the King means is yet a mystery—perhaps he thinks he’ll lay with one of Ecbert’s court women, for example — and yet, Ecbert’s confidence grows, and he prepares to weave more snaring webs. “A union must be made, indeed. God would see such an agreement worthy of the sharing of my birthright.” The lie slipped through his teeth as easily as the water rolls off Ragnar’s skin in the curtain of moisture. It isn’t as though he wants to seem as if he was scheming for this outcome all along, however. So, he settles his back against the stone again and takes to looking away in an acted focus, and it is a long stretch of silence after until he murmurs aloud, as though deciding, “Yes, it should be enough.”

The King can already feel it: thickly calloused hands, softened somewhat by the warm water, running across his skin. He tries to calm the serpent of arousal curling deep in his stomach.

Ragnar is looking at him more intently than before. He leans back and lifts his arms to rest on the rim of the bath. “I never thought the English considered doing such things. Though my people are more … open, this would seem strange even to them.” And then the Northman smiles, head tilted down and staring brightly like a wolf with eyes glinting. His words are a teasing refusal, and tone nothing short of playful. “They might think badly of me to consider it.”

Then Ecbert realizes: he _knows_.

“They need not know, only God,” he replies, and he is already slipping off the submerged seat to slowly wade to his waiting stallion. What an honor will it be to mount such a beast, all his scarred and tan skin, staring into death’s eyes while fully seated in bliss.

The question of _‘How will we do this, then?’_ that the Earl mutters, still somehow confident in his cautious words, is ignored by the approaching other. It strikes Ecbert that Ragnar has probably never done anything such as this before if indeed such acts between the same sex were ‘strange’ to his people, a light word considering that the Northman’s hinted tone warned worse. But this does not concern him. If the thought is passing through the foreigner’s mind that he does not wish to be taken, so be it, for that is not in the King’s plans anyway: It is he who will receive the other. It is the beast that will bury himself fully into his own grave. And indeed the grave will Ecbert be, for already, even as he finally reaches Ragnar and stands before him, a promise is forming in the back of his mind that this marauder will see another battle before departing once more over the sea.

Irrelevant are these dark plottings now, however, for now at seeing Ragnar’s uncharacteristic hesitance, Ecbert places his hands on the Northman’s broad shoulders and stands between the Northman’s knees.

Ragnar abandons his reluctance and holds Ecbert’s arms with hands of steely strength and brings him closer into a kiss. His lightened eyes are etched into Ecbert’s mind as the last he sees before their joining lips.

His mouth is divine. His skin, damp and heated by some great inner furnace as the King runs his hands across it. Ecbert had already felt his blood rush downward minutes before, but now with Ragnar’s arms wrapping around him, pulling him farther into this explorative kiss, he is struck with the need of his arousal. As though to aggravate his lust further, Ragnar draws away and looks mischievously at the King with mischief, and trails a hand down to his backside to bring him onto his lap.

With the Northman’s already growing erection now flushed against his own, Ecbert hums appreciatively and slowly rocks his hips back and forth in search of greater friction. With the water, however, it is a near impossible endeavor, so he reaches under and tries to grab both their cocks to speed up the process.

He is met by the sudden realization that though he knew Ragnar is big from his glance before, when hard he is of formidable girth. Ragnar sees his surprise, for he smirks and pauses to bring his hand down as well to focus only on Ecbert with careful strokes. It’s not as though the Northumbrian is small himself, he is far from it, but the thought of taking something as big as he had felt in his hand makes his heart thrum faster inside his chest, not in fear but in wanting. God, he needs this, and he shows it by reaching to grip Ragnar’s hair and kissing him roughly, all while moving his hips with Ragnar’s pumping hand.

If there are still any notions in his mind that he would perhaps not take it so far after this, they are quickly disregarded with a suddenly frustrated growl from the Northman. Guided strongly by Ragnar’s hands firmly under his arm and on his arse, he heaves them both up and sits again on the rim of the bath, now out in the cool air. The steel of Ecbert’s necklace is somehow hardly cold, especially when Ragnar pulls him on his lap just as before and does not waste time in greedily exploring the King’s body with his hands now that it is now fully visible.

“This is much better,” Ragnar says, the tone of his voice sounding as though they are still negotiating territory.

Ecbert looks down and lets out a shaky breath at seeing their swollen members caught between each others’ bodies. Ragnar’s hand is on his length again, and the other’s prick is finally visible. Though Ecbert tries to ignore the catch in his throat at the sight, his body has a mind of its own as it grinds into the grasp around his flesh. “Much better,” he agrees with breathy earnest.

After long moments of this, the fact that he is not being the most courteous lover occurs to him, that Ragnar should please him and not receive anything in turn. When Ecbert touches him in return there is a change: the Northman’s eyes shut, his chest extends with breath and presses against the King’s, and there is a lower noise caught in his throat. It is a sound that sends degrees of heat pulsing through the Northumbrian.

Not long into their blissful indulgences does Ecbert remove his other hand from Ragnar’s shoulder that he’d before been balancing with. What he intends to do is thrumming through his mind, exciting all his nerves at the mental prospect of what is coming next, when he coats three fingers with his own saliva and reaches back.

Ragnar’s expression is one of confusion, and then jolting realization.

“I thought I—” And then Ragnar cuts himself short, blinking, because apparently it is not he who will be taken, much to his visible shock. Today the King, not the farmer, will submit to sweet surrender.

It is nearly enough to make Ecbert smirk, but he instead puts his focus into the coordination of keeping balanced with a hand on Ragnar’s thigh at the same time while rubbing a finger over his hole, willing himself to not be so tense. The gaze he is under makes it hard to concentrate, as well as the hand around his own cock; until, that is, it leaves to grab onto one of Ecbert’s arse cheeks and pull, thus spreading him in a way that makes his task easier.

By the time one finger is in and moving, both of Ragnar’s hands are on his rear, and his face is dipped into Ecbert’s neck where he nips at the skin there. How rough he is as well: he takes no measures to make sure his nails do not dig into skin, or that his mouth does not distract the King completely, for it feels good to the point of distracting when his collar is sucked to the point of stinging, or his shoulder is bit harder than anyone else has ever dared. He even has to pause and drop his forehead on Ragnar’s shoulder to moan uncensored, so eager to continue but already lost under pleasure.

“Let me do it for you, King,” the Northman says, his voice lowered with lust.

The fog he had been lost under begins to clear at the loss of Ragnar’s attention; Ecbert looks up and tilts his head. “Are you so confident as to proceed, unversed?” Because of course, he knows this is the first time the other has lain with one of the same sex.

With this Ragnar pauses and licks his lips, and the Northumbrian smirks. He probably doesn’t even know what he’d be looking for if he tried a hand at such preparations as these.

“You can teach me.”

It’s more of a question, but Ecbert does not answer. Instead, he leans in for another kiss — each time they grow more daring, more heated — and nods. “Fine.”

He removes two fingers and brings his hand up to grab Ragnar’s arm to steady himself, and in turn, one of the Norseman’s hands that was spreading him slides between his arse cheeks. The touch Ecbert feels is feather-light and quickly removed, though still enough to make his body twitch at the sensation — Ragnar takes only a moment to copy what Ecbert had done, wetting three of his fingers with a mindful swish or two of the tongue, before touching there again. His face has turned from fervency while feasting upon the King’s flesh with bites and kisses to concentration at this uncharted task before him, his middle finger carefully breaching the other man, crooking inside in exploration.

Ecbert firmly bears himself down on the digit, showing the full extend of his state of preparation. So, Ragnar adds another, taking time as he pulls out and pushes in. It’s an intimate task, a man as good as a stranger intruding him so, fingering him deep till crude noises can’t be helped but escape from his mouth. When he is turned over on his hands and knees he hardly notices: an arm reaches over to draw across Ecbert’s chest, pulling him nearer to the Northman so that the flesh of his back felt the sturdiness of the other man’s body, skin all heat and moisture from the bath. Here, in this position, Ecbert fully relaxes: his limbs surrender, liquid in feeling, and his breath hitches at every intimate touch of Ragnar brushing all the bare nerves of his body, sending flushed blood to his face, his neck, body wanton and aflame.

With three fingers now buried to the knuckles, Ragnar’s driving motions cease and instead as they had initially to simply explore, feel the King’s very core. It is during this that Ecbert nearly jumps, lurching forward against the arm bracing him with a sharp, low moan. There is a pause on the Northman’s part: surely, he cannot tell if such a noise was good or bad, the King things through his pleasure-clouded mind. He blindly reaches back with an arm and grabs Ragnar’s wrist, begging wordlessly for more.

He nearly growls at the chuckle behind him. Ragnar brushes over that igniting spot once more, his obvious intent to be teasing, before removing his digits completely. There’s the sensation of a thumb clipping his hole, pulling down ever-so-slightly, as though the Earl was admiring his work or enjoying the view.

“Get on with it,” Ecbert says breathily, though there’s an edge of testiness in his tone, impatient with need. And for a moment it seems as though Ragnar fully intends to, drawing closer until his body bears part of its weight across the King’s back, the other man’s cock bumping his arse. Then there’s a chaste kiss pressed to the back of his neck. For but a moment Ecbert surrenders to the gentleness of the touch, eyes fluttering shut, before he remembers himself and again reaches behind, now grabbing Ragnar’s arse, pulling him forward.

Yet, still, this damn Northman will not ‘get on with it’. For all of the King’s simple desire of wanting to be filled, to perhaps have the additional pleasure of a foreign hand wrapped around his cock to bring him to his own completion, Ragnar seems to either not realize it or not care. Instead there is another kiss pressed to the nape of his neck, and then a thoughtful hum.

Ecbert opens his mouth, meaning to ask what on God’s good Earth was delaying the man. But, Ragnar beats him to speaking: “That, ah, must be uncomfortable.”

It’s said in the same matter-of-fact tone that the King is beginning to recognize as normal from Ragnar, a minor detail that seems to make him all the more annoyed. Ecbert’s hand, still on Ragnar’s arse, clenches, nails biting skin.

“Pray tell what you’re talking about,” he says, breathy and frustrated.

The answer is given when the Northman lifts himself off of the King’s back, the arm still around his chest guiding him onto his side, allowing his knees to no longer strain and scrape on the hard stone. When the pair of them are laid out on the floor as Ragnar intends, on their sides, back to chest and Ecbert’s leg slightly lifted so that the other’s cock can fully press upon the crack of his arse, he is thankful for the change. After all, Ecbert is no longer so young a man, and if Ragnar’s stamina proves to be long-lived, his back would surely have felt discomfort.

His thanks is expressed with a hand being brought up to tighten around the arm crossing his chest. Ragnar, as though taking it as a signal, spits on his hand shuffles behind him to presumedly slick his cock. There is a sudden bluntness pressed fully against the King’s entrance; Ecbert stills, and then relaxes, breath quickening with anticipation.

The entry is slow. Ecbert shuts his eyes, mouth parted to intake more air, when Ragnar’s head pushes in, his hole clenching around it dearly. For the rest the King pushes back himself, impaling himself with the length of the Northman, grip tightening on the other’s arm. The Northman pushes his face into the crook of the other man’s neck, breathing in as though relieved. Then he begins moving.

It’s a rocking pace at first, slow and languid, pushing against the Northumbrian as waves might tug at a boat. Ecbert grips the arms around his chest tighter with one hand, and with another again reaches back, fingers finding foreign flesh and staying there, claiming the warm and sturdy territory. “God,” he says, and, eyes shut, moves his lifted leg further forward so that better access can be gained: Ragnar responds accordingly, drawing himself more closely to the other and quickening his pace till the damp air is cut rhythmically by cracks of skin hitting skin.

“You’ve a large—” and then he gasps, pushed forward a fraction on the floor when Ragnar buries himself to the hilt and rocks shallowly. He feels a smile begin to form on the lips pressed to his neck, and continues, “Cock.” In a more mischievous tone, “Can’t recall having had bigger.”

It’s a nearly teasing tone, the conversational manner that he takes, and Ragnar, still buried deep, shifts upward to kiss the King’s ear. “Have you had so many, King?” He asks quietly, voice heavy and humored.

He takes his time to reply, allowing the other to continue with his movements after a pause, again setting the pair of entangled men in abrupt motion. Again, pleasure unfurls deep in him when that spot is hit again, and he moans, “No,” voice heated. “One other? Perhaps two.” And as he talks, it’s all turning into jolted vowels in his mouth, words battling with needy moans as Ragnar begins to pound into him.

The man behind him turns relentless, much to Ecbert’s liking. His thrust become pummeling, and noises, louder, breaths washing over the King’s neck and shoulder in abrupt huffs. His hand all but lets go of Ecbert’s leg and instead wraps around his bobbing member, still left unattended until how. The grip is firm: the Northumbrian all but groans at how it tugs at first, and then bobs at the head, smearing leaking precum all across its length without thought. The rest consists of the older of the pair hanging on for dear life, gripping the arm now tight around his ribs to the point of aching, gasping and moaning at each new-angled thrust and pleasing movement of the hand covering his member. And Ragnar then truly does sound as a beast might, curt grunts and heavy breaths, the lewd warmth emitting from him as it slicks against Ecbert’s back until their skin holds as one, not wanting to break in the dampness of the room, of this impassioned activity.

While at first the girth had nearly been too much, now the man’s cock slides in and out easily, seeking further entry at every pump. The mere sensation of his entrance being used to nearly undoes him. The crude noises, the breaths and deep moans near his ear, the own utterances of curses and the name of _God, God, God_ escaping his lips, the hand on his sex, a great warmth flushing his body: then, a sudden spur of abrupt jolts, a primal, shallow thrusts that takes over Ragnar’s hips as he groans in abandon.

When Ragnar spends, Ecbert sputters out a moan. The smooth roll of the Northman’s hips are slowly becoming more eased and contented, slowing from their previous pistoning to ride out the last warmth flowing from his loins. The King, still hastened with breath and nearly at his own climax, joins Ragnar’s hand with his own at the center of his needs. Here they both work to spend him, with the foreign fingers trailing down to massage at his tightened sac, and his own to work at his own reddened length with an adolescent fervor and impatience. It is not long before he finishes himself, a short noise leaping out from his mouth, and a heightened feeling of pleasure when he clenches around Ragnar’s still-entered cock.

For a moment he continues his pumping until sated, and then Ragnar pulls out to fully press kisses to his neck and shoulder as a lover might. In his post-coital haze, Ecbert allows it, even seeks it out more fully, as he tenderly turns over to his other side by leave of Ragnar’s urging arm so that they press together chest to chest, eye to eye. How the Northman’s winter-taken eyes seem softer now makes the King smirk.

“Why do you look at me so?” Ragnar asks with curiosity after a time, and Ecbert realizes how his own guard has left him, how while looking at the man’s handsome face he thought that perhaps in his _petite mort_ , this little death the Northman had relished deep in the King, it would suffice. Alas, indeed Ecbert was the grave, and this battle was sealed already when piercing eyes had looked behind one too many times when Ragnar stripped, revealing his thoughts.

The man lifts himself up partially, but still looks down on the King. His gaze is that of some other God, looking over Ecbert in all his mortal appearances, skin still flushed from their coupling and hair attractively tousled; and how lucky he is, in that case, for this heathen deity has the countenance, still, of a gentle, one-time lover. So he answers: “I don’t think I shall kill you, after all.”

Ragnar gives him a strange look, and after a moment, laughs softly. His hand guides him off his side and onto his back, and then rests on his chest, fingers mingling with the hair there. “I am not so easy to slay, King.”

“I should imagine,” Ecbert retorts. “You could probably fight for days without sleep and not be very tired.” Then his smirk turns to something more sly, and the Earl looks up, grin on his face, laughing again.

“Come. I would like to bathe again,” is all he says, and stands to walk to the edge of the pool and slowly lower himself inside again. When the King remains outside, only pulling himself to seat himself on the floor, Ragnar looks over and lounges his arms on either side of the rim. “Did you build this place yourself?”

Such curiosity shows on the Earl’s face that it pleases him endlessly. _A kindred spirit_ , is the thought that passes across his mind: it is this query that brings him to once again join Ragnar in the water, now seated next to him comfortably, arms draped on the rim as well. A hand traces a minor scar on the Northman’s trapezius.

“No. Other men did.”

Ragnar tilts his head. “And the statues?”

“The same people. Though, if we knew them today, I reckon we’d think them giants."

**Author's Note:**

> Taylor, I am _so_ sorry that this took me literally _a year and a half_ to finish. Like, really, I'm going to excuse myself and sit in the time out corner for a while.
> 
> Hope you and any other readers enjoyed!


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